


your favorite slave

by Blake



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: A Drabble collection for various Star Wars pairings
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Han Solo, Padmé Amidala/Sabé, Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes Padmé needs a break from being Queen. It starts with a single morning when the sun hasn’t yet risen and she can’t bring herself to open her eyes for longer than it takes to see Sabé, standing before her, holding up her dressing gown and waiting for her to rise. “You put it on,” Padmé mumbles, pressing her face deeper into the pillow and trying to go back to sleep. When she next opens her eyes, Sabé is fully dressed in her full dress, looking back at her with her narrow face and light brown eyes, a near-mirror image. Padmé is suddenly awake, shocked and thrilled into laughter and a deep sense of relief she hasn’t felt since being elected. She paints Sabé’s face, covering up the differences between them before anyone else walks in. She starts to give advice about how to pass the day as Queen, but Sabé cuts her off with a sharp look and tells her to mind her place. Padmé feels something stir inside of her, and she spends the entire day disguised as a handmaiden, watching her handmaiden command her with the nobility, clarity, and generosity of a Queen. 

Years later, their secret evolves. The days when Padmé can withdraw from her duties as Senator become increasingly rare, so she becomes dependent on nights like this. Behind closed doors, Sabé strips her of her fine clothing and tightly knotted hair and oversees her folding and then re-folding their shared wardrobe, all while lounging on the bed. The stirring in Padmé’s stomach is an old friend by now, the promise of a warm and sweet release that only one person in the galaxy can give her. “Your Highness,” she whispers reverently against Sabé’s knee, where she’s pushed up the yards of fabric to touch her lips to the pale, soft skin.

“You’ve done very well. Proceed,” Sabé commands, reaching for the back of Padmé’s head and guiding her forward, and there, in the dark folds of Sabé’s skirt, Padmé can finally breathe. 


	2. night and day

Han can’t get enough of Luke Skywalker. It’s turning into a problem.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he tells Luke, bringing him in close with an arm around his shoulders and breathing from his hair. It always smells like sun and sand, no matter how many self-indulgent showers he takes every day. There must also be some kind of truth serum in his hairwash, because Han did not mean to say that out loud. Luke smiles, all complacent-like, as if he knows half of Han’s secrets. (He might be getting close to half. It’s turning into a problem.)

“You think about me all the time?” Luke’s voice gets even higher in pitch when he thinks he can get what he wants.

Han squeezes him tight until the expansion of his ribcage presses hard against Han’s arms, a perfect amount of resistance. “Unfortunately, yes.” Luke’s clammy fingers slide just under the back of Han’s belt, considerably less than stealthy. Han will definitely be thinking about that touch an hour from now, when he’s flying through hyperspace. If he’s not thinking about that, he’ll probably be thinking about the tight suction of Luke’s eager mouth, or the pink flush that spreads across his chest when he’s close, or the smell of sun and sand in his hair. Or else he’ll be preoccupied with being chased down by Imperial fighters. Luck of the draw. “I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied until I can have you in my bed all day and all night, nonstop,” he admits, cringing at his own words. He shouldn’t be saying anything that sounds like a promise to a naïve kid who grew up on a moisture farm, but he figures it’s not a problem if he’s telling the truth.

Luke kisses the side of his neck. Han can feel the teeth in his smile. “You think only of yourself,” Luke scolds him, pulling back just enough to flash his blue eyes coyly at Han. It’s a heart-stopping look every time.

“If only it were that simple,” Han murmurs, rubbing his hand through the mess of Luke’s hair one last time before turning to leave.


	3. what is this thing called love?

Luke renounces love not long after the empire is defeated. He dedicates himself to restoring the presence of jedi in the galaxy and uses it as an excuse to neglect his physical body. He opens up a school and uses the presence of students as an excuse to ignore his desires. He works to rebuild. He tries not to think of the way Han used to look at him. He sees the way Han looks at Leia, and he forces himself not to feel bitter about it, because bitterness leads to the dark side, and isn’t that a convenient excuse to avoid heartbreak?

Lando calls him on it, a few years in, after trying to persuade Luke to join him in his latest new lavish lifestyle. “I’ve got these kids to watch over. They’re my responsibility,” Luke argues logically, drinking his way halfway down a bottle of something acrid Lando brought him.

“You’ve got _Han’s_ kid.” Lando’s voice is tight and harsh, not hurt, but concerned. Luke is good at ignoring things like concern, though. “You get to feel like he’s a part of your life, when you’re really just babysitting the problems he doesn’t know how to deal with. You get to be in love with him but never confront him about it.”

Luke refills Lando’s glass with a glare. They’re not going to talk about this anymore. Lando leaves, taking his lifestyle with him.

So what if Luke is still in love with his sister’s husband, the man who once lit up his nights like twin suns, who taught him every secret of his body that he has since tried to forget.

Luke renounced love years ago. 


	4. ice skating

Finn hates the cold. He doesn’t understand what could possibly be so _awesome_ about putting on special knife-shoes just to walk around on frozen water, only faster.

He’s tried to say as much, but it’s hard to get a word in edgewise when Poe is excited about something, and Poe is apparently very excited about the fact that Finn has never gone ice skating before.

His excitement burns so hot and bright that it provides its own warmth, makes Finn sluggish to defend because he’s too busy basking in the glow of Poe’s glittering back eyes on him and the friction of his words spinning around him at the rate of a lightyear a minute. Before he knows it, Poe is on his knees before Finn’s feet, tightening up bootlaces that go on forever, and looking up at Finn with flushed cheeks and happy eyes, and dry, cracked lips. His lashes look so dark from this angle. They’re pretty, Finn thinks, but he’s still figuring out how to trust his own perception of things like prettiness.

Finn can’t find enough breath to remind Poe that he’s fairly familiar with the straps and knots of military gear and can handle some fancy shoes on his own. He just keeps looking at Poe, feeling things he tends to feel when Poe looks at him like that: shocking spike of warmth in his chest and that scary-panicky feeling of loneliness at the same time.

His toes are numb, but he can feel them tingling under the pressure of the knots Poe is tying around his ankles. His knee twitches every time Poe’s head bumps against his inner thigh. His hands flex against the familiar longing to reach out and touch the shiny curls of Poe’s hair, because he thinks he thinks they’re pretty and he’s not sure what to do with pretty things besides protect them, and protecting means not touching.

“I bet you’re going to be great at it,” Poe says when he’s done, clapping a hand down on Finn’s thigh where it’s widest, where the impact resounds through the most possible layers of itchy, untouched muscle possible. “Just like you’re great at everything else,” he finishes, making a fist in Finn’s jacket where the two open halves can meet, if you grab both sides and clasp them together. Finn has never felt more conflicted about Poe’s faith in his ability, never felt closer to tears about the inevitability of letting him down. He stands up shakily, braces himself for Poe to let go of him the second he’s upright, braces himself for the cold, for failure, and for Poe changing his mind about wanting to waste time showing Finn how to do normal-life things.

But then, Poe _doesn’t_ let go of him. He sticks to Finn’s side for the whole ten crunchy, wobbly steps to the frozen lake, one hand on Finn’s closest arm, and one wrapped behind his back and cupping his waist. And then they stand on the ice for a while, and Poe holds him still, until Finn’s ankles get a sense for how stiff they have to be without a flat surface to stand on. Poe’s breath is warm and fast against Finn’s cheek, because he keeps laughing. Finn’s heart keeps fluttering like he’s about to fall, and it’s not just when his ankles start to wobble.

“There you go,” Poe whispers, strangely serious all of the sudden. Finn dares to look away from the ice below them and sees Poe’s lashes dark, eyes focused hard on the gentle slide of their feet on the ice, in tandem. “You’ve got it,” he says, a hypnotic rhythm, yards of ice sliding out under them and away. The curves of a smile hitch up the stubbled flesh of his cheek, though Finn can’t see his chapped lips from this angle. The extent to which he _wishes_ he could see them scares him, like he’s about to fall.

“I’ve got it,” Finn echoes hollowly, hoping someone else will figure out for him whether he means it as a declaration or a question.

It’s Poe who falls first. Finn feels the sharp tug on his torso from Poe’s warm hands, and then they’re losing their footing, teetering toward the edge of the ice. Poe’s balance finally slips out from under him, and then Finn is following him down into a snowbank with his arms wrapped tightly around Poe’s shoulders.

He barely even registers the impact on his knees and wrists, too busy registering other important facts, like the fact that he and Poe are still connected, that Poe is under him, that Poe is _warm_ under him, and solid, and pretty, and safe, and alive.

Poe’s eyes darken as they drop down- to Finn’s mouth, is what it looks like. Maybe Finn’s lips look dry and cracked, too. “Hey, buddy,” Poe says huskily, light smile still growing on his face, despite their fall. There’s a thump on Finn’s back- Poe’s friendly hand slap again, resounding through all of Finn’s bones. “It’s okay, I’m alright.”

In the back of Finn’s brain, he realizes Poe is saying that because he’s still holding on tight and staring at Poe’s face like he’s worried he was injured in the fall. He realizes there’s no reason for him to be holding on so tight and staring at Poe’s face. He realizes he wasn’t worried about protecting Poe when they fell- he just cared about staying close.

Poe’s hand travels up, nails scratching lightly, tentatively into the tight hairs on Finn’s scalp before softening into something more tender and sure.

Finn leans up into the touch at the same time he settles deeper down into the warmth of Poe’s body beneath him. His eyes fall shut just as he sees Poe’s tongue flicker out to wet his lips, and then Finn’s mouth finds its own blind, heat-seeking way to fit against Poe’s.

Poe opens up under him like the sweetest, softest thing Finn’s ever touched in his whole life, the cracks in his lips and the scrape of his stubble melting away in the heat of his mouth. Poe’s hand is warm where it firmly cups the back of his skull, and his laugh tastes even better than it sounds.


End file.
